Page 14 of Left Cold, Wolf Owned
"I do." He holds up the keys briefly. "Coolant hose. Maybe some heat stress on the overflow tank, but I won't know until I get in there." He says it the way someone else might discuss the weather—matter-of-fact, no drama. "She'll run again."
"Thank you." I mean it completely. "Seriously."
He nods once, turns the keys over again, and seems satisfied with that exchange.
The fourth is younger—mid-twenties, petite, with long black hair and bright green eyes, and the kind of open, perceptive expression that makes you want to tell her things before you've consciously decided to. She has a notebook tucked under one arm, and she smiles when I look at her.
"Lila," she says warmly. "I help out with medical stuff around here. I wanted to make sure you weren't hurt from the trail last night."
"I don't think so," I say. "My pride, maybe."
That gets a real reaction—Nora laughs outright, warmth moves through Mateo's face, and even Garrett's mouth does something in the vicinity of a smile. It moves through the group easily, the way laughter does when people are genuinely comfortable with each other rather than performing it.
I stand in the middle of it in borrowed sweatpants and feel, strangely, like I'm not entirely on the outside of it.
Logan is watching me from beside the door. When I glance at him, he doesn't look away, and there's a flicker in his face that I haven't seen there before—something quieter than his usual neutral, something that takes a beat to identify. Like he's watching something he hoped would happen and is making sure not to make a thing of it.
I look away first. Again.
Nora takes charge of me with the cheerful authority of a woman who was built to solve problems, knows it, and finds the whole enterprise genuinely enjoyable. Within twenty minutes, I've been walked to the lodge—a large, solid timber building set back in the trees that manages to feel both functional and like the center of something—handed a towel, pointed toward a proper shower, and presented with a bag of toiletries that is significantly better stocked than my bathroom at home.
"I keep an emergency kit," she explains, leaning against the doorframe while I look through it. "Shampoo, conditioner, the good kind. Dry shampoo. Face wash." She pauses. "Do you have a preference for moisturizer?"
"Whatever you've got."
"I've got three. Dewy or matte?"
I look at her. She is completely serious. "Dewy," I say.
"Good answer." She produces it from the bag. "There are clothes on the chair—mine, so they'll probably be long on you, but they'll fit better than whatever you've got on."
"Thank you," I say. "For all of this. You didn't have to?—"
"Go shower," she says simply. "We can do the thank-yous over breakfast."
An hour later, I am clean, dressed in clothes that actually fit, and sitting at a long wooden table in the lodge kitchen while the smell of coffee and something cooking fills the space. It'sa good kitchen—worn and practical and clearly used by people who actually eat together, which is something I didn't realize I'd notice until I noticed it.
Nora moves around it like she owns it, which I suspect she functionally does. Lila sits across from me and asks quiet, practical questions—did I sleep, did anything hurt from the trail—the attention behind them genuine, not gap-filling.
Mateo refills everyone's coffee before anyone has noticed it needs refilling and says almost nothing. I'm beginning to understand that this may be who he is.
Logan takes his usual seat—the one that gives him the full room. He doesn't hover. He doesn't insert himself into the conversation that Nora is cheerfully carrying on her own. He exists in the room in that grounded, unhurried way he has, and every so often, I'm aware of him in my periphery without meaning to be.
Through the window, I can see the garage—a long, practical building on the border of the property. Garrett is already in there. I can hear the faint, purposeful sounds of someone working, metal and movement, the particular industry of knowing exactly what he’s doing and is getting on with it.
My car. Being taken apart and put back together by someone who is treating it with more care than I have in years.
I think about the venue. The texts. Dawson, in his tailored suit, with his hands up like I was something to be managed. I think about my mother's name in my missed calls and the version of yesterday that's being constructed without me somewhere in a city I drove away from.
And then I think about forty minutes down a mountain. A couple of days. This kitchen, and the smell of coffee, and four people who have known me for less than an hour and are already feeding me breakfast.
"You okay?" Lila asks, quietly.
I look at her. The honest answer is complicated. The true answer is simpler.
"Yeah," I say. "Actually, yeah."
She nods like that's exactly what she was hoping to hear and slides the butter across the table without making a thing of it.
